


Cold Winds are Rising

by BigG



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigG/pseuds/BigG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> </p>
<p>The cold winds are rising as Winter returns to Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms, an empire grown fat, ripe for the bleeding. House Stark is shattered, fragments of which remain. House Bolton rules the North with fear alone. House Tyrell threatens to end support for the Crown as the Queen Regent and Knight of Flowers are still prisoners. House Lannisters grip on power continues to wane as the Faith retain an iron grip over Kings Landing, and the White Walkers creep ever closer to the realm of Men.</p>
<p>However. Through all this, the Wolfs will side a new force in Westeros to rise from the ashes once again.</p>
<p>The cold winds are rising, a storm is howling, and war is on its way.</p>
<p>This is my first ever fanfiction so please comment and tell me what you think ;)</p>
<p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Theon take a leap of faith

Sansa stared long and hard down the face of Winterfells tall stone and grimy walls of protection. Once protection for her and her family, a stronghold for House Stark. Now it is a stronghold for House Bolton, the betrayers of the Northern cause, the backstabbers of her family, them and those of House Frey of the crossing. She stared long and hard at the drop beneath her. A long drop that ended in a soft pillow of snow. It looked deep, perhaps deep enough for her to leap with Theon and survive. What would happen though? If she and Theon did jump to the bed of snow beneath them. Would they survive the fall? Would they die on impact? Would one live and the other pass? Or would they break limbs? Neither the Stark girl nor the Greyjoy boy knew of the outcome, they could not foretell the future.  
One thing was for certain for the both of them. If they stayed in Winterfell and allowed the Bolton bastard to capture them, their fates would have a far darker and more ominous outcome than ever. Theon, or Reek, would likely be flayed by Ramsey himself. At least then Theon would be out of this world of death and rot and regret. Sansa would live. Only to be beaten and raped further for Ramseys pure amusement. That is, until she bore a son to him. Then he would cut away at her piece by painstaking piece until there was no Sansa Stark for the North to remember.

The Stark girl peeled away her eyes from the deep drop before her to meet her gaze with the Greyjoy boy. Theon was shaking both from the cold and from the torture of House Bolton’s bastard. He then offered his hand to the young wolf, his original face of arrogance and pride, replaced by fright, uncertainty and submissiveness. Not a facet remained of Theon. Maybe there was a facet left deep down, but on the surface, only Reek.

Sansa paused for a moment, uncertain. Her Tully blue eyes fluttered between the hand offered to her and the Greyjoy blue eyes of former Prince Theon. She heard the trumpets of the Bolton banner men returning from the battle between the holders of Winterfell, House Bolton, and Stannis’ House Baratheon, with a Baratheon defeat as its final conclusion. The stun the trumpets whale gave her heart made the choice for her and she took Theons hand. Both teenagers looked down at the drop before them along the grimy stone wall once more. Both grasped the others hand in an iron grip for dear life.

“It’s now or never” the Stark girl decided in her thoughts as she and Theon let their eyes close and their heads rolled upwards towards the sky. Both took a deep breath and jumped from the battlements, falling together at an equal pace. Their hand were then torn from each other’s grasp as they tumbled from through the air, Faster and faster and then they impacted the ground at the base of Winterfells walls. They both hit the snow, which crunched as it was compressed beneath them, but Sansa also heard another crunch, much louder and more distant to her side.

The little dove lay in her imprint in the snow, a full five feet deep. Her eyes followed the lining of the edge of the snow, all ridged and broken with pieces missing. It resembled the Wall where her half-brother was stationed she believed.  
After what were only moments but felt like an eternity, she lifted herself up, as she did so her back flared up in a roar of pain when sat upright. “It must be from the fall” Sansa thought to herself as she faced the forest, the mass of corpses and dead horses that was Stannis Baratheons army. But now it was an army no more. Then she remembered that the Bolton’s would be looking for her and Theon had yet to reveal himself from the snow. She turned her head and saw his imprint in the snow. “Theon” she called out, expecting an answer. When nothing came she pushed herself up on the palms of her hands and then pushed her knees under her legs to kneel in the snow. She then saw Theons face, staring up into the sky as though he was lying in a meadow during summer watching the clouds dance through the water blue sky. His eyes were open wide and he did not blink, his mouth was cracked open across the lips in one straight line. If his lips were any closer they would be closed all together. She saw blood. The snow where Theon had landed was not deep enough to have broken his fall unlike where Sansa had landed. “Theon!” the little dove called out once again and louder. “Theon!” this time she almost shouted as she strained to push herself up on her feet but forward onto her knees into the snow again as her spine burned with pain once again and she whined in pain. She slid her hand under the Greyjoy boys head and then under his back as she lifted him out of the snow. Immediately, she felt something wet, something thick and runny.

It felt like blood.

“Theon, please answer me!” she cried out as she clutched his now lifeless body, but his eyes continued to stare at the clouds as if all were right with the world. That was, when he travelled either to the countless hells of the Old Gods or the underwater heaven of the Drowned God for his loyalty to the Drownded God, the Iron born, the Iron islands and House Greyjoy. A tear then fell from her left eye from her sorrow of the Iron borns passing. It carved a frozen track in her cheek as it slid down, and then fell from her face and all but vanished into the white of the snow. Then the little dove remembered what he had done and the tears stopped. He had betrayed her family, her House, the Northern Kingdom. He turned his back on the people who had taken him under their roof from his and their enemies. While she was thankful for his saving of her from Miranda. She could never forgive him for what he had done to her family. With a sigh she set his lifeless body gently into the creater it had left in the snow, in the perfect shape of his body, she laid him to rest. She could not carry his body to bury it, then she would certainly be caught by the Bolton’s. Sansa then pressed her hands deep into the snow beside Theons corpse to find the soft Earth and find leverage. But the little dove could not spread her wings as she fell back on her hands and knees as her spine roared like a Lannister lion in pain. 

All of a sudden, Sansa heard the bell ring behind the walls of the castle. They had discovered Miranda’s corpse at the bottom of the wall beside the walkway and sounded the alarm. “Gods. Please give me strength” she prayed. Unlike in the South, in Kings Landing, where the Heart Trees had all been burned to the ground, the Gods had no power in the South and therefore could not here her prayers. But she was not in the South, she was in the North where the Heart Trees remained and the Gods of the Forest retained their power. The Stark girl then pressed her hands hard into the soft snow and onto the ground once again and this time, the Gods were listening to her. Sansa pulled herself steadily upwards on her feet, standing up straight. She stared out into the vast white expanse that surrounded Winterfell, littered with thousands of Baratheon soldiers. As she started to walk, her spine flared with pain once again, and this time her ankle also was in pain and she limped to one side. She did not care. All she cared about was getting to the forest before she was spotted.  
After what felt like an eternity of walking and limping, Sansa finally reached the beginning of the forest. Everywhere she swung her head; she could see lifeless bodies mingled in between the trees. Some with a stab wound to the chest, others with missing limbs, and one man in particular who had been cut at the waist. Around the sea of the dead, were islands of armour, shields and swords, and the banners of Stannis’ House Baratheon, a red heart with golden flames surrounding it, with the black head of a Stag. All of them lay scattered about the forest.

All of a sudden, she heard the horn of a rider sound in the distance behind her. ‘They have noticed my absence.’ She thought to herself. The Little Dove decided that she was strong enough to run again. And that is exactly what she did. She began to run with all the strength she could muster, her limp fading as her muscles grew used to the movement. Although her spine now flared up again, a sharp pain near her shoulder blade, she thought. The Stark girl thought she felt a drop of some liquid trickle down her back. She wasn’t sure what it was but accepted the thought it could just be a bead of sweat from running for leagues. 

Sansa made it deep into the forest. After running for some minutes she finally decided to stop and rest. Accepting the thought that she was a safe distance from the Bolton’s. She was breathless and could go no further. She swirled around in all directions but all she could see were twin, triplet and quadruplet like trees all around her. ‘How do people learn to live in the woods?’ the thought crossed her mind but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. Sansa turned behind her and saw a tall and sturdy looking tree. She then leaned her back against the bark and slid downwards to the snow as she sighed a relief to be alone to rest for a moment.

Then the pain in her shoulder flared up again and this time she felt something thick and sludgy spread across her shoulder blade. Sansa then traced her hand across the area. When she pulled her hand back to her face to see, it was dark red and runny. ‘The snow where I had landed mustn’t have been that deep either’ she thought to herself and a slight wave of nervousness coursed through her.It was at that moment that Sansa could smell the soot of burning logs and coal. She turned her head in the direction of the scent to see. She then spotted at the top of a tree line, the cobblestone of a chimney; with the smoke she could smell leaving it. Behind it were more huts and cottages. She could even hear the clinking of some metal and the whispers of chatter. She had found the far edge of the Winter Town. 

Sansa then decided she could rest later as she pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the pain in her spine. She then straightened herself and began to walk towards the Winter Town. As she started to walk; she started to limp slightly yet again, her leg still painful from the jump. But she was sure she could find help in the Winter town, which was now living up to its name as the winds of winter began to blow, the building now covered in snow. She was told to light the candle in the broken tower. There was someone here who could help her, possibly more than one. The North wanted the House Stark back, and House Bolton to be torn down and its lands salted. She needed to find someone to help here with her wounds, still fresh. Even if Sansa could not get help but could get medicine, she would journey out by herself. Even though she does not know how to survive, yet. 

Bran and Rickon were alive and out there somewhere in the North. But Sansa was sure to herself that she would not return to Winterfell as long as House Bolton ruled the North.  
Now Sansa will tread North to find her brothers. And Gods be dammed she would not.


	2. Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran completes his training

Bran simply kept to his inner thoughts as he watched Meera roll up the wolf pelts that they managed to bring under the Heart Tree after the attack of the Wrights not so long ago that claimed the soul of Lady Reed’s brother, Jojen Reed, and sent him to one of the countless old heavens or hells. The Little Lord had supposedly completed his training teachings with the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest. Now the trio had to journey south, or so the Three-Eyed Raven believed.

The Young Wolf averted his gaze for Meera as she stood and straightened herself. He wanted to prevent her from gaining the wrong impression of him. His eyes danced across the possibly millions of roots that stretched their arms down from the base of the Weirwood tree to God’s only know where else below. While a dark and eyrie looking den it was, the Young Lord of Winterfell found a starlight shimmer of sadness in him that he would be leaving the tree, the Three-Eyed Raven, and the Children. But he knew his duty was to head south with the Lady of Greywater Watch and the quasi-giant. 

He had to fulfil his destiny. Whatever it was, but Bran was certain that as time passed, he would discover what he had to do. He needed to search for his family along the way, and his House again, or what was left of them. “Oy, Bran”, Meera called from behind as she steadily walked over to Bran, if that was even possible on the floor of bones and skulls. The Young Wolf lay at the base of the throne like tangle of roots where the Three-Eyed Raven was fused with the Heart Tree, all the while the skulls and bones crunched under Meera’s feet, ancient skeletons shattering to dust beneath her. This was a detail Bran will not miss about the Lands of Always Winter, the mountains of dead crunching beneath them, the brittle cold and the near non-existent daylight hours, clouds hiding the face of the sun and the daylight is gone like the flicker of candlelight.

As the Lady of House Reed approached Bran, she knelled before the Lord of Winterfell to speak. “I think that about everything”, she said sighing and looking around both ways.  
“Not that we had much though”, Bran replied, stating the obvious.Meera then climbed to her feet and straightened herself once again as she strode over to where Hodor was sitting, his thoughts floating in the clouds and with the stars, as could be expected with any half-wit simpleton.

“Ok Hodor. I’m going to need you to go and lift Bran again over there”, the Lady of Greywater Watch stated as she placed and strapped the wolf pelts to Hodors back. The quasi-giant then turned his head to stare at the young hunter with a gaze that was dead to the known world. He then turned to the Lord of Winterfell as he pushed himself to his feet and waddled quickly over to Bran. He then slid his left arm under the crook beneath Bran’s knees, and then his right arm behind his spine to lift him bridal-style.  
Bran turned his head to meet his gaze with the Three-Eyed Raven. His locks of chestnut hair bouncing off of his shoulders and swirling around his cheeks. “Thank-you, for everything you have taught me”, he stated slowly and calmly as he and the Three-Eyed Raven locked their eyes together. The elderly man, if that was what he was stared Bran deep in the eyes, appearing deep in thought, wondering what to say before speaking at last.

“No need for gratitude Brandon Stark. Just remember to travel carefully, Little Lord. Keep your eyes and ears awake at all times, for when you journey south, a song will be sung to you by a bringer of fire and hope, and a holder of ice and dread, and this song will lull you to rise once again.”Bran simply stared for a few moments, in the centre of no man’s land between ignorance and knowledge, and then he nodded in a false clarification to what had just been spoken. He then turned his head to meet Meera’s gaze. She appeared to be surprisingly curious but just as clueless as him.

“Come, Brandon of House Stark. You must begin your journey south”, a Child of the Forest spoke from behind. Both Bran and Meera, the young wolf and crocodile turned their heads to see the child standing with the composure of a deity carved from marble in a haze of mist. “Come. We will cover your journey to the mountains”. The Child of the Forest then turned and faded slowly into the steamy vapour in front of them.

“Follow her Hodor”, Bran simply stated as he motioned his hand to signal to the quasi-giant to shadow the child’s path. Hodor then lifted himself to his feet. As Hodor jolted forward into motion, Bran’s head fell back into Hodor’s chest of rabbit hives that kept them what little warmth they had in the Lands of Always Winter. As Hodor carried Bran out through the tunnel under the dirt not far behind the Child of the Forest, Meera lifted her quiver and followed suit behind the two from Winterfell. As they followed the child to the outside world, they were constantly surrounded by the roots of the Heart Tree, and dirt from the Earth. Constantly brushing past their knife like ends. Neither Bran nor Meera would admit it, they would never want to as it would insult the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest, but it were brutally ugly, cramped and damp in the underground in which they lived. Neither of them could begin to contemplate how they had managed to cope with the conditions under the tree. The foggy mist was at least tolerable, the countless skeletons, and the infinite roots and stems combined into one of Bran’s nightmare realms. But now they were leaving, and both of them agree that it could not have arrived a moment too sooner.

The Greenseeing Wolf, the hunting Crocodile, the quasi-giant of Winterfell, and the Child of the Forest, after a long stretch, reached the gateway to the outside world, a porthole to another dimension, a wasteland of snow and ice. 

“Brandon Stark. You must enter the thoughts of your carrier to reach the hills beyond the ice. We will protect you and Lady Merra as you journey. Good luck,” a second Child of the Forest informed when he appeared from behind the roots and stems of the Heart Tree. His gaze stuck with the Little Lords for moment and then he turned his sight out towards the horizon. 

“Thank-you, again. Thank-you for everything you have done for us,” Bran said once more. He wanted to offer his guilders what little he could. He truly was grateful for what they had done for him. All the Children simply stared at him for what felt like painfully long moments. Meera rolled her eyes back and forth from the Children and Bran’s long held gaze. The Lord of Winterfell then turned his sight to connect with the Lady of Greywater Watch for a moment longer before looking out into the Lands of Always Winter. Almost frozen in time.  
“Right. Let’s go,” Meera ordered. She patted Bran on his shoulder blade rather firmly before making her way out into the snow flurry and onto the ragged rocks as the snowflakes gently fluttered and slammed down, nesting on her shoulders and entwined with her brown and blackish locks of curls, and the glaring sun stretched its fingers from behind, shimmering on the blanket of whit that surrounded them. 

Bran then focused on his task. He let his mind clear itself of his thoughts as he laid his head back to rest between Hodor’s upper arm and blade of shoulder as his Tully blue eyes rolled upwards to become a pure and glossy white as he warged into the conscience of Hodor. The Little Lord resembled a blind travelling prophet as the quasi-giant bounced forward and proceeded to enter the Lands of Always Winter as the Lord of Winterfell guided his body. Hodor who carried Bran’s empty body out into the shower of white flakes and where then smothered with snow. The two Children of the Forest then stepped out into the winter storm as Hodor followed Meera towards the sea of ice. Meera drew her dagger from the sheaf to be at her ready for the inevitable onslaught of the Wrights that would immerge form the ice to take them like her Jojen.

The trio scampered across the sea of ice. Half way across all was still well; there was no sign of danger. The Children of the Forest watched from their peak above. Keeping their eyes on their student, his hunter and carrier. The snow fell heavy and thick. It veiled their vision to only a few feet in front of them. Bran and Meera could only see the outline of the mountains but the Children of the Forest kept watch through the shower of white.

Then there was a burst from behind Hodor controlled by Bran. The shards of ice flew and fell like the snowflakes they cut through. The Wrights dragged themselves out from ice they were buried under. One at first, and then dozens more. The second Wright to reveal itself surfaced directly behind Meera. The Lady of House Reed wasted little time in using her skill with a blade to slice through the neck. She tore the skull from the neck and threw it with all her might across the ice, as the Children of the Forest watched in a slight amusement from the Weirwood tree. Bran saw the expressions on Meera’s face through the eyes of Hodor. A mixture of rage, arrogance, and satisfaction. He believed it was her partial vengeance for the death of her brother. Despite it being months since his claim by the Wrights, she has never fully got over the loss. The Little Lord then commanded Hodor’s conscience to quicken the quasi-giants pace. Hodor then began to speed up. Faster and faster. Even for someone his size, he was quite an able sprinter. Both Hodor, commanded by Bran, and Meera ran as fast as they could to get across the sea of ice and to the hills before the Wrights behind them caught up. All the while, the frozen undying screeched and sprinted, and their bones clattered.  
Meera, before resuming course to the hills, as a Wright caught up to her, she swung her foot backwards and upwards, striking the jaw and sending the frozen undying flying behind into the air. She then jolted to her feet and sprinted to catch up with Hodor and Bran, her pace, fast, and efficient. She kept her eyes on the hills. Now ahead of the quasi-giant and the Little Lord, the Lady of Greywater Watch slowed her pace to stay just in front of the pair, but not too far forward in case they needed her assistance.

The Wrights continued to chase the trio and were closing in at a quickening pace. It was then, just as one of the frozen undying was about to claw at Hodor’s back, a large blast of flames came from behind. As blue as winter frost and as red as the sun at the height of the long summer. The swirls of colours wrapped their arms around the quasi-giant and the Little Lord; their fingers stretched the height of Hodor. The force of the blast was enough to make Bran’s carrier stumble, but he kept his balance and kept running. The blast blew the Wrights on the verge of the cripple and the simpleton away in shards in a perfect circle.

The Children of the Forest prepared another ball of flames. The Child pulled her hand back as far as she could and swung forward to give the fire as much momentum as she could muster for it. The sphere flew high and bright, reflecting and catching the light of the snow droplets in the sky that fell beside it. Like a star in the centre of the night sky. Just as the sphere of frost and ginger was about to land, more of the frozen undying broke their way out of the ice and into the Lands of Always Winter, in front of Meera. She halted dead in her tracks and paced back once or twice. The Wrights mounted themselves on the ice and dragged themselves out of their hole, shrieking and crying. And then the sphere of fire landed right between. Sending the undying flying as dust in a perfect circle. 

Meera shrieked in pain as a fragment of the bone penetrated her skin. It embedded itself deep into her thigh, and she stumbled forwards. However, the Lady refused to fall victim.  
The trio continued forward. They could hear the continued explosions not far behind as the Children protected them from the Wrights. However, they refused to look back. 

After an eternity of sprinting through the blizzard across the sea of ice. Meera, and Hodor controlled by Bran finally reached the slope of the hills. As they began to climb the rock, the Lady of Greywater Watch yielded her knife and jammed it into the snow covered stone for better leverage. The quasi-giant controlled by the Little Lord needed no such thing as he simply walked in a quickened pace through a narrow walkway between the hills. With Meera first and Hodor second, the trio they finally reached the peak of one the pyramids beyond the sea of ice. Finally safe from the frozen undying. The quasi-giant arrived not a moment later at the peak of the mountain and away from the danger. The snow still flurrying, it sat thick in their locks of hair and rabbit hive cloaks.

Bran’s eyes rolled back to their striking Tully blue. His breath hitched within his throat as his breathing turned to panting as he returned to his conscience. His eyes wandered around in circles as his head and chestnut locks swung from side to side as he looked about his new surroundings. The snow was thinner where they now stood, high in the hills. It was as if the wind wasn’t the wind, but it was replaced with shards of glass mixed with the razor sharp steel of daggers flying everywhere, cutting everywhere. The group of three gazed over the other side of the mountains. They could see nothing but flat and white wasteland that was the Lands of Always Winter. On the edge of the horizon, was the faint shadow of the Haunted Forest showed itself, hinting at their path. 

Meera then turned her head to face behind, towards the Weirwood tree, now visible through the snow, but the storm still pounded itself downwards onto the three. She gazed down the path they had just travelled. She could see the faint shadows of the bones of the undying at the bottom of the hills. She then focused her sight on and could see just barely, the spot of black in the white that was her sweet brother’s remains. She turned her head to face forward as she knew that if she were to stare too long, the burning of the tears would make their reappearance. She saw the path before them and began to feel a sense of disorientation at the task they now faced.

“Where do we go now”, the Lady of House Reed asked as she glanced down to the Little Lord in the quasi-giants arms.

“South”, Bran replied.


	3. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives warning in the Wintertown.

Sansa limped steadily through the road of the Wintertown. She kept her head bowed ever so slightly, and kept her hood draped upon her face to veil her features. No-one could know of her identity or her true one at least if she could avoid giving communication as much as possible. 

She could trust no-one.

But perhaps she could come to trust some. There could be some ‘friends’ here in the Wintertown that could give her help. After all, House Bolton was the most despised noble house in the entire northern kingdom, if you could call the Bolton’s noble. Perhaps she could unite with the person who kept watch in the Broken Tower, or Breinne of Tarth if she was near. Breinne must be the watcher in the Broken Tower, despite the Stark girl refusing her service, she seemed determined to win it no matter what. Perhaps she was the one to inform the servant at Winterfell, the poor elderly woman who was skinned alive due to the actions and treachery of the Greyjoy boy. The Little Dove was no longer able to speak his name without feeling the venom sit on her tongue. Although Theon had helped her escape from the castle she once called home, no place was safe, not North, nor south, east or west. No-one would abandon her. She is a Stark, the last Stark as far as Westeros knew, and the Key to the North. If she journeyed to the safety of Highgarden, Bolton hunters would follow her, if she travelled to the Haunted Forest of the Lands of Always Winter, House Lannister’s spies who tell them so.

As Sansa walked and limped through a large wave of people strolling backwards and forwards to wherever it was they were travelling to. Thankfully, none raised their heads or spared her a second glance. She quickened her pace. She needed to find someone who could help her shoulder and stop its flow of blood. Her eyes of Tully blue swirled in circles from cottages to blacksmiths looking for somewhere she might take shelter to get help from someone.

Her mother like eyes landed upon a story tall building, constructed of planks of timber and supported by oak logs stretching the height of the building. The wood was dark, damp from snowfall, and a bed of white as thick as blood sat on its roof of bundled sticks with the ends of needles. The windows were dark and stained glass. Dark and black from endless fogs of smoke and suite, now more than ever now that winter was upon Westeros and a new source of heat other than the Sun was now needed. Draping over the doors was a square, dark and painted sign, with the picture of a small carriage painted on the planks that were suspended mid-air. ‘An Inn’, the girl of House Stark thought to herself. She could take rest here and possibly find an ally of sorts that knew something of medication. Her shoulder still dripped fresh blood and the back of her dress was beginning to feel damp on her skin. As she approached the door of the Inn, Sansa could already smell the dust and smoke for what she could guess was freshly burning coal, and the scent of forest from timber and oak still very much strong and damp. When she entered, the Little Dove was greeted by a thick haze of smoke from the fire and candles. It filled her lungs and she choked it back up as she waved the cloud from her face. It did no good. The smoke remained in its rightful place as a fog would in a swamp on a day of rain.

Sansa then turned her head from the left and then to the right, she could just make out the figures of men and women scattered and dispersed in little colonies around the hall, standing over and seated around ancient looking tables with pots of ale and wine for all. The chatter was loud and the laughter hard as men played instruments and women fell backwards and their skirts lifting, having drunk so much wine they could no longer pronounce it. The girl of House Stark peered towards the end of the hall to where she could see crates that formed what appeared to be a front desk, with a man of elderly age stationed behind it. He seemed to be writing into a large book of some sorts, most likely for keeping record of guests. He then lifted his quill and dunked it within an inkwell beside him on the edge of the desk. He then tapped it once or twice before continuing to commit letters of iron to the parchment. Behind him on the wall were keys, a few keys. They all hung neatly in rows on their handles. Some handles were without keys, but many did. Sansa had long since concluded it was the owner or at least the manager of the Inn, and judging by the amount of brass that hung behind the Inn Keeper, there was still some rooms available.

The Little Dove then began to swim her way through the sea of strangers in order to reach the elderly desk. The crowd was thicker than she had imagined, all laughing, cheering and enjoying themselves, the smell of liquor was very much in the air. It must be the liquor that is making them so jolly, they could not be without it, not while House Bolton as the Wardens of the North. Never the less, Sansa removed the question from her chamber of thoughts, she then focused on her self-appointed task of getting a room and finding help.

Sansa finally cleared the crowd and now had a straight walkway towards the desk. Now that her sight was clear of most people and she had a more accurate pathway. She then noticed that there were not as many keys on the handles as she had previously thought. Many were now ‘keyless’. ‘It had to make sense’, the Stark girl thought to herself as she neared the desk, a lot of guests and few keys were two pieces of a puzzle that fitted together perfectly. The Stark girl then felt a candlelight flicker of concern, ‘What if there was no space at all?’ More importantly, who could, or would help her? The girl of House Stark finally reached the two creates that formed the ‘front desk’ and placed her silver hands on the edge of the wood. The old man looked deep in concentration as he scribbled ink as black as raven feathers into the golden parchment, the writing was so fine and neat it may as well have been imprinted on the page with a wax seal. He lifted his quill and dipped it into the inkwell sitting to the corner of the ‘desk’, refreshing the quills supply before he continued to wirte. She cleared her throat, it having become almost completely blocked with fog of suite and smoke from the coals of the fire, as well as the mist of wine and ale.

“Excuse me." The elderly man continued to write for a moment longer, not taking his eyes off of the parchment. He then lifted his gaze up to meet Sansa’s as he downed his quill. “I would like a room please”. The Stark girl’s voice was low and clam, with just a hint of nerves. 

The innkeeper cleared his throat, “May I have your name”. Sansa came within spitting distance of revealing her identify as a Lady of the House Stark. She bit her tongue and choked the words back. She had to be smart about this. ‘What sort of alias could I use?’ she thought to herself. For a moment, Sansa considered giving Lord Baelish’s alias of Alayne Stone, but then the thought corrected her. If she identified as a bastard of the Vale, would the innkeeper welcome her with open arms? Would he evict her if she identified out of wedlock? She did not know, nor was she prepared to risk it either.

The name of the poor squire who died at the hands of the Mountain came to mind. “Alayne Oakheart.” Sansa figured it must have worked. After staring at her for a moment, he dipped his quill into the inkwell again and committed the falsity to the parchment.

“So what brings you to the Wintertown, business or plessure?”

“Pleasure.” The elderly innkeeper continued to scribble onto the parchment, writing the reason of her presence in Inn, and he continued afterwards, writing numbers and more. While he scripture in the logbook, the two both remained as silent the grave with only the whaling of the partygoers, both drunken and sober behind them, as well as the faint notes of musical instruments in the far distance of the hall. After a few moments, he put the quill down and lifted what resembled a salt shaker. He sprinkled the ‘salt’ like substance onto the still ink damp parchment and then blew it in Sansa’s features, drying the ink. He then returned the logbook to its rightful place on the ‘desk’ and turned his back to the Little Dove, searching for the handle of a specific key, and he found it rather quickly. The key for room twenty-three.

The elderly man then turned to face the girl of House Stark and smirked slightly while he held the key slightly to his features. “Room twenty-three. I’ll take you there. Follow me.” The old man then turned to the exit of the ‘desk’ while keeping his eyes locked upon Sansa’s Tully blue for a moment. The human relic then strolled out from the alcove and through to the tunnel of timber and oak. The Little Dove followed suite behind the man who retained his almost crypt keeper like appearance. The elderly innkeeper took steady steps down the glee filled hall, Sansa following in perfect file line; her limp had now finally dissipated, and entered into a desolate corridor with countless doors to countless unexplored bedchambers on either side, stretching to the bluntest of endings where and single diamond-cut window stood tall and worn, and to its right, a spiralling flight of stairs stretching off into oblivion. As they gained distance from the festivities and livelihood, the cheering and whaling faded and faded until only faint whispers could be heard echoing in the shell of ear of the Little Dove. 

The corridor clapped gleefully with the heals clicks of both the innkeepers and Sansa’s heels, the only source of light was the candle like flicker of torchlight from burning coals in metal pillars that hung evenly between oak doors, and the glimmer of sunlight on the Winters snow that sparkled through the window, stretching its fingers from the diamond-cut glass to the eons old floor that ached and howled in agony with every step that they took. As they turned and began their conquest of the spiral stairs, the claps of their shoes and cries of the wood grew louder and more pronounced, and the torchlight briefly dimmed as the two passed between floors. The innkeeper took his exit on the first floor and ‘Alayne’ followed as if she were a pet or Valerian slave with a collar and rope attached to her swan-like neck. While the pair may have been a floor away from the main hall and festivities, the smog of fire and torch was still a constant companion, and was thickened by the torches of the second floor, it that was possible. The suite still clawed at her throat as well as lungs, and made her shaggy exhales hiss and wheeze every time.

This corridor was indifferent to changing itself to the first. It stretched just as long as the previous if not longer and just as gloomy. The pairs trek did not stretch into infinity as a few steps further away from the fire pole like stairwell, they had arrived at Sansa’s chambers twenty-three. She stopped dead in her tracks, almost ghosting the behind of the elderly innkeeper as he bent forward to find the keys hole in the ever dimmer torchlight. After hearing the faintest of clicks that was drowned by the ever quieter cheers of celebration below, the oak door gently creaked open. The innkeeper the assisted the door on the remainder of its journey to reveal a room that was as dark as a raven and as hazy as the corridor they had just escaped from. The separate stones of the walls blended together in the faint light that there was into grey of Stark Dire wolf, and the black of the Targaryen banner. The chambers were warm and inviting, unlike it counterpart beyond the oak door which is as cold as the Lands of Always Winter. The fire burned high and bright and its glow stretched its hands and fingers throughout the bed chambers, swallowing the black and grey in a flickering golden orange. She could tell the fire had been burning long due to the heat, but the coals still were scented as if they were freshly produced from the mines not hours beforehand. The room was hollow,, with a single bed tucked away in the corner opposite of the cobble hearth, and a table that looked as if its wooden disk was comprised of tightly wrapped bundles of sticks.

The innkeeper then spoke while setting the brass upon the platter of timber, “So what brings you to the North and to the Wintertown?”

“Excuse me?” Sansa retorted, surprised by his sudden remark, it sounding as though he was making an accusation.

“House Oakheart is a southern house is it not?” The Little Dove contemplated her options for an answer in order to try and sound legitimate and give an answer that would satisfy the elderly man as well as to not draw his suspicion. “Yes, yes. We are a proud southern house of the Reach sworn to House Tyrell. I have always wanted to come and explore the North, starting from the Wintertown and then onwards.” Sansa then forced somewhat of a semi-smile in order to legitimize the lie. The elderly innkeeper stared at her for a few short moments. He then gave her a gentle smile and kept his mud brown locked with the Tully blue of the Stark girl.

He then freed the brass from his grasp to let it rest upon the timber platter. “Well, I must be getting back”, he said as he pulled his gaze away from Sansa and turned towards the door. “If you need me I’ll be at the front desk in the hall where you first came in.” He then pulled the door open once again but then stopped under it frame to turn and face Sansa. “If you need anything just give me a shout. And my name is Jacor. Jacor Tallman.” Jacor then stepped out of the frame and closed the door firmly behind him. Sansa could hear the floorboards ache in pain in between the crackles of the hearth as Jacor gain distance from her chambers to return to the stairwell. Sansa then did something she had not nor could do in eons. She smiled the slightest of smiles to herself. Jacor seemed like a kind man. He may have only given her a few sentences as he showed her to her chambers, but they were the first soft words spoken to her since she had married Lord Tyrion.

The Stark girl then removed her hood to reveal her Tully red hair. Her ginger strands were much more of a colour than her mother’s ever was, she was proud of that fact. Sansa then strode towards the hearth of cobblestone, coal and firewood as she felt her shoulder behind. As she got close to the flames, she could feel their heat envelope her and wrap its hands around her into a warm embracing hug. When she came to a halt at the base of the hearth for warmth, the heat of the flames was tearing through her skirt and burning her legs. She did not care. With the cold winds rising as winter made a return, any warmth was good and welcoming warmth. The Stark girl then detached her index finger from her wound and lifted it so the reveal was in front of her features. It was dark red. The blood was thick and dry on the tip of her finger. The blood was beginning to clot the wound. She had to fathom it was a positive occurrence, if the wound clotted it would stop the leakage of blood. But the fabric draping over her shoulder was still very much damp with fresh red, which squealed to her that the injury was still dripping, and on her fingers tip the blood looked as if it was revealing a hint of green that resembled---

Sansa then heard knock on crossed with the thud of a hand on the old oak door, followed by another. The Little Dove then twirled around to lock sight on the door which was still where Jacor had left it, securely in its frame. Closed. ‘It must be Jacor again’ was what pressed through her thoughts. If it is him, what could he want this time? The Stark girl made her way with grace from the fire to the wall of oak, and the scent forest that mixed in with that of the flames, smoke and coal. As the Little Dove stepped ever closer to the door, she lowered her hand to her waist. She then wiped regal red of ruby gems from the tip of her finger onto the cloak. The last thing she wanted was to arouse suspicion from Jacor or anyone else for that matter. Sansa reached for the handle of the oak door and turned to pull it hastily to the side, “Did you forget something---“

It was not Jacor Tallman who was standing in the doorway. No it was not. It was a boy who looked about the same age as sweet Sansa, if not slightly older. He gracefully turned his features away from the direction of the stairwell to face her. He was not like any boy Sansa had ever seen. No males in Westeros wore thick red cloaks as this boy did. It wrapped its way around him in different directions; its sleeves were thick, they hung like ropes at his wrists. The cloak was traced with the rough prints of excess fabric that made it resemble the stained stone from a shoreline. Although he had turned his features to face Sansa, she could see none of them. His face from the cheekbones down was obscured by a veil of darkness that had enough transparency to show his jawline and lips, although everything excluding his marble red eyes, almost glittering, and his fine eyebrows. Everything beyond the hairline was the colour of fresh Lannister like crimson with small gems of dragonglass draped on his forehead just above his eyebrows. Sansa felt his eyes piercing her soul, staring into her very depths. It was then that the Little Dove realised because of this fact, she did not know wheather the person standing outside her chambers was a boy or girl. She did not have enough evidence to prove either way.

“I am sorry but do I know you?”

“No. But I know you, as does Jacor Tallman. He knows you're not who are not who your claiming to be.” His persons accent struck Sansa. Highly posh, evidence of a backround of privilage. She was shocked at the allegation but she kept her composure. She did not want to appear weak as she had so many times before. How could this boy or girl possibly know who she was? Did he or she know she was young Wolf? Did Jacor know? If not, there was no way she could give her identity away, to anyone. "May I come in?" the Stranger asked. Her expression was slightly stern, but predominated by her usual expression of neutrality, a dead glimmer from her Tully eyes, her jaw hanging ever so slightly open, yet her pearly white teeth were still concealed in the black behind her lips. Sansa then stepped to the side was now parallel to the door. She sank her head forward and let it list to the side ever so slightly so as to motion to the Stanger to enter her chambers.

The Stranger got the silent message. He gracefully strolled through the door frame and into the room, as if he or her were King or Queen on a royal visit. The Little Dove pressed the door closed behind him or her. She then swirled round to face the Stranger; the Stranger was still taking small but graceful steps before finally coming to a halt in the centre of the room. The Stranger then turned to face Sansa, taking small glances at the various crevices of the room. Sansa then proceeded to step forward once or twice to meet the Stranger in the centre. She was wary, as with everyone today, and she translated her distrust to her face in the form of a cold, icy stare into his marble eyes and a glance up and down.

It was no possible match for the way the Strangers iris’s of ruby gems burrowed through her. The eyes and an obscured lower face were the only portion of the Strangers features she could see, the rest was lost in the sea of dark crimson that inveigled the upper head, wrapping its arms and fingers forever around and around. The Stranger then unclasped his or her hands and lifted them to the hood. The Stranger gently pulled the hood down to rest on his or her shoulders, reviling the veil and hood was two separate entities and that the Stranger was indeed male. The veil stretched from ear to ear, stretching well down past his jawline just to graze the cloakand he warmly smiled beneath it. The veil itself had beaded gems of what resembled dragonglass, gripping the fabric for dear life. Sansa still even with the torchlight slightly brighter could only see lining of his jaw and his lips, with the rest obscured to the basics, making the skin underneath seen as smooth as glass, but it also looked slightly rough and ridged. The boy’s smiled slightly behind the veil which was sightly warming. His hair was such a striking ginger. The strands almost glowed like the fingers of the flames behind her that continued to scorch her back. The colour resembled Sansa’s but if not was stronger than the Tully’s. His hands rejoined at his waist but he never let a finger rest upon the veil which remained in its position.

“May I know who you are?” the Stark girl queried. If she knew the red boys name at the very least then she could have a chance of trust.

“It doesnt matter who I am. It matters who you are, the innkeeper knows your lying.” The red boy whent silent but kept what was half way between a small smile and a look of neutrality towards Sansa as she gave a simple distrusting expression. The atmosphere was thick. Both from the suit and the meeting.

“I am Alayne of House Oakheart, sworn to House Tyrell of Highgarden”, the Stark girl retorted. She wondered if the innkeeper knew that she was a wolf. 'Who was this red haired boy and what did he want?', she repeated and revised in her chamber of thoughts. The red boy swung his hands down by his hips and rolled his head back in frustration, he sighed.

"For the love of the God's! You're Sansa of the House Stark. Jacor knows this and he wont keep it a secret.”

Sansa fell back a step in shell shock. “How?” She asked. The red haired boy silent in an akward limbo as she covered her gaping jaw with her hand but then dropped it below her chin. “Is this a warning?” The red haired boy was simply silent and now the Stark girl was becoming more frustrated than shocked at his allegations that were as veiled as his face. “If Jacor knows, how does he know?” she asked. She was now beginning to believe the boys ever so slightly out of desperation rather than trust. He tilted his head forward and his eyes greeted the floor as he stepped forward and retuned his covered features to the Little Dove, he reached a hand to her face slowly. Sansa remained frozen as the ice of the Wall. Her eyes jumped from the boys hand to his eyes as the sleeve of his cloak slid slightly down his arm. His hand travelled past Sansa’s features and took the end of her ponytail in his hand. He held it steadily in his palm, his irises of blood locked on the Tully ginger.

“Imemorable shade”, was all he said as his and Sansa's eyes momentarily before he slide his hand from beneath her amber strands letting it come to rest on her shoulder once more. Despite the absence of the ginger boy’s palm, the Little Doves ponytail simmered with warmth as it were by the fire. Fear suddenly drowned her in realisation of the ginger boy’s accusation of ‘memorable shade’. Her ginger was a giveaway. It squealed high and loud of her mother’s house, which spoke her father’s too. Her eyes widened at the realisation and her jaw dropped further. The ginger boy then reached for a pocket in his coak to his left beofre pulling out a small vial of dark green liquid and wrapping her palm round it. "For that wound in you shoulder blade. Apply it generously." he smiled, then turned towards the door and made his way.

Sansa wanted to intervene, to find more answers and to ask him more questions but she could not seem to order her thoughts, they still coursed with the venom of realising how many people could already know of her true identity, how the boy knew so much about her. ‘How could I be so stupid?’ she kept thinking to herself. Her hand reached up and took the brittles of ginger in grasp that still retained lingering, unnatural warmth. She turned to face the back of the red boy who then pulled the door from its case before returning the hood to hair. “Can I at least know you name?” Sansa repeated again in one last attempt to extract information from him. The red boy stopped dead in his tracks just beyond the door case with his hand still firmly grasping the actual door above its handle. He seemed locked in concentration. Sansa kept her face locked in direction. 

“I am Aryest of Fire.”

Sansa looked at him curiously as he dropped his face to the floor as he turned round to the girl of House Stark once more. Aryest paused momentarily with her before he pried his rubies from her connection as he pulled the door closed as Sansa could hear the creaks and aches of the floorboards as he strolled to the stairwell, his steps growing ever fainter. The Stark girls Tully blue lingered on the oak for moments. She stepped over to the panel of wood and placed her palm on the handle. She could no longer hear Aryest’s footsteps and so released her grip on the wood and iron. She revised in thought over what had just transpired as she returned to the warmth of the flames. The tingling of Aryest’s touch on her hair had now faded into nothing as if it never happened.

Then, Sansa recalled the discussion of the wound on her shoulder. She returned her fingers to it. The fabric was still damp with crimson. She began to add more worry on top of that already created by that of Aryest’s accusations. When her fingers ghosted over the cut, it was soft and leaking blood. When she viewed the evidence on the tips of her fingers, it was dark on her skin. She lifted the hand with the vial and wered her head to take in the sight of it. ‘How do i know if this is even medicine?’ she thought to herself as her eyes returned to the dancing flames inside the cobblestone. Something told her that she may need to seek out the red boy on her own again. she did'nt want to use the green liquid in case it was something more sinister than she tought it was. her eyes then returned to the fire in concentration.


	4. Ramsey I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose and Ramsey get news.

The doors to the great hall swung fast to the sides as they were thrown open and Ramsey stormed through the door case, a look of anger and determination on his face. Lord Bolton and Winterfell’s head guard turned to face the legitimized bastard of the ruling house as he continued to pound the straw covered stone beneath like rain pounds the leaves of a storm covered forest. He reached the centre of the hall and the edge of the table his Lord father was bent over on the right and the head guard to its left, standing stern and proper, shadowing the map of Westeros spread flat. His eyes flickered between the both of them, “Is it true?” he asked in disbelief. 

“Yes I’m afraid it is.” Lord Bolton replied in his usual dead, lifeless tone. “She and Theon jumped after pushing her handmaiden from the guard post. Theon died on impact and Sansa fled.” Lord Bolton raised his gaze from the map on the table in front of him and to his left to meet that of his bastard son. To his surprise, Ramsey did not have an expression of anger and sadistic intention contorting his face. His features were soft, almost sad, flickering to different points on painting of their country. “Ramsey, are you alright?”

The Northern bastard realised that his father couldn’t know about Miranda. If he did, he himself would most likely end up on the Bolton cross. Stripped to his inner muscles. He ordered himself to regain his composure. “Nothing father, I’m fine. It’s just i knew her handmaiden. That’s all.” Roose glared at him, almost knowingly for a moment before returning to the map of Westeros beneath him.

“Who was the guard on duty when they escaped?” demanded Ramsey in a flat tone.

“Him”, retorted his Lord father as he looked up to meet the mud brown of the head guard’s eyes in front of him on the opposite side of the table.

“How!” demanded Ramsey in an ever escalating tone as he riveted the man with a gaze sharp enough to cut like Valaryian steel.

“I....I....I....”

“You, you, who would know better”, the Northern bastard corrected the man’s stutter. He obviously knew what he might be in for when he was on Ramsey Bolton’s darkest side of anger and sadism. “Well!”

“We’re not sure my Lord. Most guards were out winning the Battle or Winterfell, which we did.”

Ramsey cocked his head to the left and rolled his eyes until they were as white as the winter snows that flurried just beyond the stone that encased them. “Pathetic!” Ramsey’s tone was now echoing through the hall from corner to corner. 

“Yes, pathetic. There were other guards on duty during the battle were there not?” Lord Bolton’s expression was as dead as the sands of Dorne as he waited for a reply from the guard who now seemed to be quivering in fright, which only intensified the fact that he lacked an answer. “Because of you, not only did we lose a servant and a handmaiden, we lost the Key to the North. You let her slip from our grasp like melting ice, one of my houses key claims on the Northern Kingdom.”

“My deepest apologies my Lord. It will not happen again.” The head guard spoke almost shaking with remorse and terror.

“Apologies won’t bring Lady Stark back, and you’re right, it won’t happen again.” Roose calmly placed on an ice platter to the man. “Andren, Karron.” The two guards just called stepped from their positions beneath the windows of the wall to just a metre behind their Warden of the North. “Take former Commander Arrel bellow and strap him to one of the crosses. Ramsey, you can deal with him later.” Arrel’s face slowly melted off him and dropped to the stone beneath, realising what his Lord was condemning him to when Andren and Karron walked round the table parallel and wrapped arms around his as if it were a wedding. The former commander of the guards was frozen in fear. He had realised what was happening but he could not seem to speak or move his limbs. His who body was paralyzed.

“Please my Lord, I beg you. Please!” he pleaded but Roose’s expression of grimace remained. Ramsey then smirked a touch. He was ‘saddened’ at hearing of Miranda’s death. His heart actually cracked a slither, if you could believe that Ramsey Bolton had a heart at all.

“Please Lord Bolton.! Please!” Arrel begged and begged for his life even more than now as he was dragged through the door case by the two sellswords towards the dungeons of Winterfell. Lord Bolton bowed his head to the map of the Seven Kingdoms once again in contemplation of his next placement of his pawns and actions as the room fell silent once again and the echoes faded.

“Rylen.” Roose called out and a third guard stepped forward from the other end of the room. “You’ve proven yourself useful and wise so prove it again. You’e the new Commander of the guards here at Winterfell.”

“Yes my Lord, thank you my Lord.” Rylen replied.

“Ramsey.” the Lords bastard son returned his attention to his father to hear his orders. “Send a raven to Lord Baleish in Kings Landing; inform him of what’s happened.”

“Yes, father.” Ramsey then bowed his head as he swirled around to face and stroll out of the great wooden doors of the Great Hall to make his way to where the ravens rested so he could send the news on its way. 

“Ramsey.” the Lord father called from behind and Ramsey paused in his tracks before turning to face his father and letting his hands fall to his waist. “Be benign.” The Northern bastard smirked to his father and turned to exit the hall once more and finally faded into the shadows. When he did more figures appeared in the door case who turned out to be guards. Roose turned his attention to then all, for when they emerged, they encased a rather old and worn looking man with a long beard and dark as night rags for clothes.

“Who is this?” Roose queried. All guards who surrounded him bowed their heads onto him to slice his with gazes. The man then stepped forward and kept his eyes locked with those of his Lord. 

“I’m Jacor Tallman, my Lord. I have news for you.”

“Which is?”

“I know where Sansa Stark is.”


	5. Margery I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Loras and Queen Margery confess.
> 
> Chapter 5 is finally here. Enjoy. ;)

Margery stood surrounded by Septas, being spun harshly in each direction, running damp rags of cloth up and down her as she stood naked in front of the clergy. The pieces of fabric tracing her curves may have been wet but they were filthy and as vile as the rags the High Sparrow wore himself. Ser Lora’s, her sweet brother was next. They had both confessed their crimes. Loras’s confession had shocked the Queen deeply, surprised that her brother had found it in him to bow to some filthy commoner from the slums of the city. That he had the integrity to withstand the shame. They had both sought forgiveness from the Mother, the judgment of the Father, and the guidance of the Crone as she kneeled before the decrepit old man in a decrepit old chapel under the Great Sept of Baelor 1st. Encased in an old and decaying building, grey and surrounded by dungeons lit by dimly radiating torchlight, enclosed with nothing but rotten wooden doors with a nameless altar of stone with the Seven Pointed Star engraved both on its front and on the floor where the Tyrell siblings had lay. With the Holy Scripture placed proudly on the altar.

The old door in front of the Queen opened and yet another Septa walked in with a blade held firmly in her hand. It looked as sharp as her grandmother’s tongue. She glanced Margery up and down as Margery glared daggers at her. The Septa’s who had washed her then emptied out of the room, while the Septa with the blade circled the Little Flower. She had thinned. The results of starvation and torture to force her to confess to her sins. ‘Very religious’, she thought to herself. As the Septa stepped behind her in order to trim her hair short, she could hear the whimpers of her sweet brother not far from her own cell as the Sparrow’s shaved his locks in preparation for their atonement.

Loras was lucky to be allowed to return to the Red Keep. Margery was surprised the High Sparrow had granted him such a drop of the Mothers Mercy. But then again, the Faith had released Cersei. Despite her having been convicted of treason, regicide, incest and sex outside of marriage after she confessed to one, but not all. The Septa grabbed a tuft of her soft strands of the Tyrell House and ran the blade up and down in earnest as the Queen lost clump after clump of her sandy locks. She gripped the plate of the stool she sat on as it creaked as the Septa hacked at her again and again, the steel gracing and ghosting her scalp. She felt skin lift but by Gods she wouldn’t give the Septa the satisfaction of a sinner whimpering pain beneath her. Soon the blood flowed freely from the forest of her hair and inched down her neck and her forehead further. Her hair grew ever shorter. Soon it had gone from long and graceful to short, stubby and uneven. The blood ran through the different curves and ravines of her composure, she broke her fingernails, clawing at the stool. Her hair now lay in long, swerving clumps from what she could see as she was blinded by her thick viscous red on her lashes.

The Septa then finished her work on Margery, her remaining hair as jagged as a roses thorns, and then left the cell, but not before stopping to turn and face the Little Flower, glaring at her for a few moments, admiring her work before finally turning round and leaving the cell. Leaving Margery to contemplate what would come next. All she did for those few eons was stare at the empty door case. She stared down at her lap and vice versa. She was still ghosting over the question why had the High Sparrow granted them the Mothers Mercy, especially Lora’s. Due to his crimes of buggery and her own crimes of perjury. But then again, the brotherfucker had been pardoned before trial.

The captive Queen Regent stayed silent and homed in on her sweet brothers whimpers from a distance. She sat like this for a while thinking ---

The familiar Septa returned to the cell and stood proud before the Queen. But she didn’t bow to the royalty before her, stripped of decadence to the bone. She bowed to the Seven. She stood facing the wall behind Margery with a ragged dress cloth, tattered and dirty draped over her stretched out arm. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the same rags she wore before being stripped down to be washed as tossed like a rag doll. She lowered her face to stare at the Little Rose with distain. She tossed the robe onto her crimson covered thighs which made her flinch. “Get dressed.” The Little Queen rose and took the rags in hand as she lifted her legs and slipped it up her body. The cloth smeared the blood across her torso and the fabric clung sticky to her skin which showed in the Stark grey. The Septa then lifted one of the balls of fabric from the bucket which was used to wash her, and scrapped the fabric over Margery’s features, smearing the vicious red one way and then the other. The trails of blood becoming progressively thinner, until it was nearly non-existent and her features were damp and glimmering.

The Septa then threw the cloth to the half cylinder that was the wooden bucket with the water throwing itself over the edges and darkening the straw that laced the stone of the floor. She grabbed the Little Queen’s shoulder and shoved her forward. Hard enough to cause her to stumble in her steps, but then quickly regained her balance as she took small steps forward with her stubble head of hair and her shoulders cringed slightly close as she walked down the vaulted corridor of cells beneath the Sept, glowing with golden torchlight.  
They navigated through one narrow and dimly lit vault to another before finally emerging to the daylight after eons of captivity. They walked straight through the hall of the Great Sept, passing the centre that was stared at by the stone re-creations of all Seven Gods before approaching forever stretching doors that could reach the clouds, guarded by two of the everyday Sparrows who then pulled the doors from their frames and to their sides letting the sunlight of the Stormlands flood the hall. Blinding Margery as she stood there and let her eyes adjust to the change of setting. The Septa who took her right hand side then shoved her shoulder and she stumbled forward. The Little Queen could hear the patters of the Knight of Flowers not far behind her. She turned her head and glanced behind as she tiptoed forward. There she saw Lora’s at the other end of the hall with a Sparrow accompanying him. He was dressed in a rag that was not that different from her own. Her attention was brought back to herself when the Septa grabbed her just beyond the door case, halting her in her tracks. She turned her features behind her once more to catch sight of Lora’s. Her sweet brother, walk up behind her and take his place beside the Little Flower. They glanced at each other before Margery uttered “Hi.”

“Hi”, Loras replied.

They were then pushed into momentum once again and turned down separate stairwells to the left and right. As Margery looked up from her feet, she could see what looked like the entire population of King’s Landing standing in one street in one mass. Shoulder to shoulder. Glaring up at their Queen and their Knight of Flowers as they approached each other. The front of the Great Sept was lined with Sparrows, Septa’s and the High Sparrow himself as he took his place at the top of the altar behind and above them, and stared into the crowd. He stood for a moment in silence. “Two sinners come before you. Margery and Loras, of House Tyrell. They have confessed to their crimes. Loras to buggery, and Margery to perjury. He paused momentarily never once taking his eyes off of the people of King’s Landing. “They have begged for forgiveness. To demonstrate their repentance, they will cast aside all pride, all artifice and present themselves as the Gods made them. To you, the people of the capitol. They come before you with solemn hearts. Stripped of secrecy. Naked before the eyes of Gods and men, to make their walk of Atonement.” The High Septon then turned to face the wife of the King. He nodded to the Sparrow and to the Septa beside them who then almost tore the lacings of the rags and shed the cloth from their bodies. Letting it fall and pool at their feet. They then stood as naked as their Nameday. 

“May I speak to my people?” Margery requested out of the blue. The High Sparrow remained silent. She turned her head to see him. His features were bunched up in the centre of his face as he was deep in concentration. 

“Yes you may.” His features loosened as he replied in his usual expression. The Queen then turned to face her subjects of the capitol as they waited with baited breath to hear their monarch.

“I lied after vowing to the Gods, yes that’s true. But I did it to stand up for and defend my brother”--- Loras cocked his head to catch sight of his sister and his heart warmed ---“Is it a crime to defend my loved ones and my house?” the Queen flinched when a cane struck the groove of her spine, but she contained even so much as a whimper. The crowd of commoners echoed with whispers of what had just transpired. The siblings were then shoved forward by the Septa and Sparrows surrounding them and stumbled out of the ring of rags around their feet and almost into the shoulders of the Sparrows in front of them. They took one step at a time down the stairwell and into the street with both of their heads held high. They would not be shamed. Then the Septa to Margery’s right rang a bell that sounded familiar to her from days beforehand when Cersei was released. 

“Shame! ---Shame!---Shame!” She chanted as they took steps through the crowd that made way for them. Even after an eternity of walking through the smallest caverns of King’s Landing with the Septa ringing and wailing all the while, the people were silent, along with an occasional whisper. “Shame!---Shame!---Shame!” it didn’t matter that a Septa was crying such a word out until both the Tyrell’s ears ached and ringed with the sound of a bell, the common people respected House Tyrell. They respected and even loved their new Queen and Knightly brother. House Tyrell went out of its way to help those less fortunate get by unlike House Lannister, who gleefully watched the poor starve, as they thought it was below them to help those not already within the aristocracy.

‘Typical’, she thought to herself as she and her sweet brother navigated the city gazed on by daggers. Finally now nearing the Red Keep. They then separated from the Sparrows, the Septa and the crowd as they passed through a barrier of Lannister soldiers. Loras and Margery now walked alone and solemn to the gate of the keep. When one of the doors opened a slither and allowed them entry.

When the two grandchildren of House Tyrell came to a halt not a metre in the door, they were both receiving looks from all directions. From both Lannister’s , Tyrell’s Grand Master Pycelle, Qyburn and the last of House Baratheon. Her husband. Almost immediately, Loras and Margery’s grandmother of wit raced to both of them with cloaks in her hands with the blatent intention of covering their exposed flesh. She wrapped both of her grandchildren tightly and they shivered at the contact. “Oh my darlings”--- she spoke into their shoulders with comfort and the sound of a happy sad vocals ---“its wonderful to have you back.”

Margery then slowly lifted her face upwards to then lay eyes on none other than the woman who had fabricated this mess they were in. Cersei stood there with her head bowed ever so slightly, eyeing Margery with a smirk spread across her lips. Seeing the smirking whore from Highgarden like this was the most satisfying event she had since her own return to the Red Keep. For the Queen, seeing the Queen Mother with that smug expression plastered on her face was breaking point. She brushed Olenna’s hand from her shoulder and strode across the hall toward Cersei. The look of sadism quickly melting from her face as she pulled her head up right, her eyes widened and her lips cracked open a slither. The Queen reached the Queen Mother and struck her palm across her cheek “Stupid”--- then struck the second cheek with her knuckles curled up in a fist ---“slut! You stupid slut, are you happy now?”

The rest of the crowd gasped in shock and stared in disbelief at what their Queen had just done as the classicical looking Lannister fell to the floor. Cersei regained her Barings, and rose from the stone beneath her. Her stocking of false hair almost losing its grip and falling from her head. Her cheeks now turning crimson after her beating, especially the one to her right. Her eyes watered from the pain and she grew breathy. The worst part of all of it was she knew she striking the Queen back would ensure capital punishment, so she held her fists back. Instead;

“How dare you commit such an act? I am the Queen”---

“I am the Queen Cersei. You are the Queen Mother, a name only, powerless title, get it through your thick head!”

The two glared at each other and Cersei knew not to press the matter further. Margery meant business. Margery turned to her right to face the group of lords who looked at her and Cersei and were as silent as crypts. Margery saw the sweet king, her child husband take one or two steps forward. He fiddled with the tips of his fingers that were entwined together in front of his belt. His expression was soft and fragile. Stricken with sadness and worry as he glanced at the floor and back up to his wife’s daggers. The Queen stormed forward, glancing at Tommen before brushing past him. He turned his head with her but then quickly let it fall to face to cobblestone of the floor while his eyes watered. She continued to strode passed the Lannister’s and Tyrell’s and up the flight of stairs to the exit. Her feet slapping the stone of the floor and the stairs before she disappeared through the arch. Cersi’s eyes had followed her in the blood red of the cloak to the door. She felt the eyes of the matriarch of the Tyrell family burning through the back of her head. She spun on her feet to meet the Queen of Thorns across the hall, still gripping her grandson with might as he kept his own gaze on his feet. Her gaze was one of her many typical expressions. One that didn’t mean anything. One of nothing. “What are you looking at?”

“Something ugly looking back.” Olenna retorted with her sass in full swing. “Come Loras”--- she said rubbing the shoulder blade on his right, ---“lets get you to your chambers.” The two then quickly and gracefully stood up the stairs Margery had not moments ago and disappeared behind the black of the exit.

Cersei turned to face the others sharply who just stood in silence. Her son, the king had returned to his default expression of softness. His eyes turning red. She cocked her head to her uncle Kevan, ‘was he snickering?’ Now cremated with rage and embarrassment, Cersei swirled on her heels and stormed towards the stairwell. Her feet still ached as an eerie reminder of her own atonement not too long ago. She passed through the arch and stormed her way to her chambers in a fit of rage.


	6. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Explores the Wintertown, searching for someone to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long, I've had school to deal with and I was slow to think of what to write.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated.

Sansa strode through the narrow alleyway with an impression of stride to most commoners, yet keeping her head bowed and hood draped like the leaves of weeping willow over a lake, obscuring her features and sight. The snow sprinkled the town once more. The sky and ground were blurred, only distinct by the roofs of buildings and the chocolate mud of the road. Despite the risk of capture, she needed fresh air. Her chambers were stuffy. The mixture of warmth from the flames and the breath of ice from the window were too contradictory. She walked proudly on both feet. Her limp having faded to nothing through leagues of cardio. 

She left the inn in hope of finding her late mothers sworn sword. Breine of Tarth. She had a feeling she would be lurking in the Wintertown. Breine didn’t seem like the type of person to give up on an oath because of one rejection from the descendent of her Lady. She trailed the tips of her fingers across her shoulders now hardened wound. It was dry crispy, crispy, the colour of a post sunset sky. She had applied the ointment that Ayrest had provided her. The medicine had worked well. Sansa didn’t know why she allowed herself to do it not knowing what it was. She had figured she had little else to lose. Her life she figured it was worth the risk and it had paid off well. Now she wondered the alleys of the Wintertown with no central aim in a vague search for someone she knew. 

She didn’t want to venture too far in the event of losing her way from the inn she kept a room. The thought of returning to the inn and the warmth of a fresh fire began crossing her mind. So much so that she sighed before turning on her heals to return to the inn. It was then that the Stark girl heard the thundering of hooves and the whale of a trumpet. She ducked her head and retreated to the confines of an alley as cheering knights trailing fluttering flayed men on jet black horses glided passed. Fear poisoned her like nightshade. They passed the crack opening of the alley in the direction of the inn where Sansa stayed. ‘How?’ she pondered. The answer quickly showed as she recalled the warning she received from her ambiguous visitor about the innkeeper’s loose tongue. The fear was soon overtaken by the venom of anger at how two-faced Jacor really was. 

When the banner men disappeared around a corner, Sansa turned the other direction upon revealing herself from the alleyway and travelled the street that connected to others with more houses and blacksmiths. She took a left. She followed the street and took a right. She searched the village for someone she could turn to. The sound of the trumpet caught Sansa’s ears one more. She realised that the Bolton’s had turned in direction. She began to pant in worry as she hurried her pace in random directions of quest. She turned left again at an intersection to a long and wide street that stretched further that the previous. Sansa started to make her way before she stopped when she caught sight of a figure, draped in crimson red with black swirls as her half brothers locks, standing in front of a large and dark caravan. The carriage had four men on four mud brown horses at each corner that stood tall. They were banner men of a house of some sort. The banners of the house they carried were one which the Stark girl didn’t recognise. It had a background of chequered sunset orange and jet black. The Sigel was the trailing waves of blood red that formed what resembled the head of a dragon, spitting its split tongue with its head bowed forward. The red boy appeared to be in conversation with some other men. She approached the caravan. She was close enough to hear the voices of the men in conversation. One was the classical cockney voice of a commoner. The other was a highly post and slightly foreign sounding accent with a roll of the tongue every so often. Sansa realised she had stumbled on none other than the Ayrest himself. 

She quickened her pace and rapidly approached the pair in conversation and reached for the shoulder blade of the Red Boy.“But I thought you said we---“. The boy stopped mid sentence as Sansa rested her palm on his shoulder and her turned round to catch sight of her. He smirked slightly when he realised who she was. “Lady Sansa. What a pleasant surprise.” His accent struck her again.

“You have to help me Ayrest!”

“Why, whatever’s the matter?”

“The Bolton’s are after me.” 

“So I was right after all. Jacor did know and tell.” He said with a plain expression.

“I never said that you weren’t.” She retorted, catching his emerald smirk. It was then they caught the sound of the screaming trumpet. Louder than ever. It signified their proximity to the Bolton’s. Ayrest and Sansa were now wide eyed. 

“You have to come with me!” He stated swirling around to take a step towards the trailer and pull open the door and offered access to the Stark girl. When she hesitated, “Look there are two options before you. You can make your own way and be captured by House Bolton once again. Then you will be returned to Ramsey to be beaten, raped, and possibly killed. Or you can come with me and escape House Bolton’s wrath for the time. The choice was yours, although I advise the latter.” With another howl of closing trumpet, Sansa stepped forward and took Ayrest’s hand as she stepped up and to a seat on the opposite side of the cabin facing backwards. Ayrest turned his eyes on the man beside him, “You know what to do.” He said before stepping into the cabin to sit diagonal to the Star girl facing forwards and he pulled the door shut. He and Sansa locked on each other, Sansa’s features were twisted and warped by fear. Reading worry and distrust, “I swear, no harm will come to you.” The Red Boy then gave a warm smile from under the veil that obscured it. The veil was a light red, lighter than is clothes. With the same dark jet glimmering gems of the previous that laced the fabric in straight vertical lines. She was still slightly distrusting. After all, Sansa barely knew him. But it was not as if she would leave the carriage and make her own way which would probably ensure capture. It wasn’t as if she had a choice in her mind. However, his gentle smile was warming and comforting. The smile then dropped from Ayrest’s features as he tilted his head to look behind Sansa, Well what are we waiting for, go on!”

The caravan jolted into motion as its wheels clawed through the mud trying to turn, eventually succeeding and gathered speed. The volume of the horses hooves surrounding the carriage greatened as--- “Halt!” the caravan imminently stopped in its tracks as both Sansa and Ayrest glared wide eyed in fear.

The Red Boy muttered a roar, “Get behind my seat. Now!” Sansa wasted little time in getting to her feet as she whaled herself over the seats and landing on her back in the storage area for baggage, making eye contact with Ayrest. “Stay her. Don’t move, don’t even breathe until I say otherwise.” His expression was solemn with nothing else to interpret as he turned round to sit properly and lifted his hood over his to thicken the plot of appearance. The Stark girl grew terrified but calmed her breaths as the carriage came to a standstill. The Red Boy took a deep and released it in a quiet sigh. 

There were three loud sounds of thump on the door. He pulled the hatched of crosshatch to meet the iron expression of a brutal appearing banner man with a cone helmet. Squinty face with the brown and grey stubble of beard, a typical appearance of a flayed man, “To what do I owe the pleasure my lord?”

“We are looking for Sansa Stark.”

“Sansa Stark---“ Ayrest faked stun and contemplation “---Well what does she look like?”

“Red hair, a black or grey riding cloak. Blue eyes.” He fakes thought to the banner man. The Stark girl bated her breath before he announced his loyalty to Sansa.

“No, doesn’t ring a bell. My apoligies.” She breathed relief. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked trying to conceive normality. The man remained silent; his eyes fell south before returning to Ayrest.

“No. You are not from Westeros are you?”

“Yes I am. I am a merchant from Pentos across the Narrow Sea.”

“You are a long way from home aren’t you?” The man retorted suspicion.

“Yes I am which is why I would like to be on my way if there is no more business here so I can complete my trade and return to the warmth of Essos sooner rather than later.” He said half faking a smile.

“May I see what you’re carrying?”

“No.” The man then glared with stun, suspicion and raised his eyebrows. “My cargo’s valuable. I can’t have strange men poking and prodding through my trade goods, to say nothing of pocketing the jewels.” The Red boy then made eye contact with the soldier. The man could see his colour. Red. Red like gems. Red like blood. He noticed the skin beneath the fabric of the veil. Rough, resembling the bark of tree but dissipated under the lace and dragonglass. Ayrest gave the man a stare of caution and ambiguity. The banner man’s frown didn’t fade and he seemed to focus more on a single thought of some sort.

“You know what I think I will have a look inside--“ 

“Guards!” the Red Boy commanded, roaring like Lannister Lions. His banner men pulled sword from sheath as did the Flayed men. The sound of steel screeching made Sansa grit her teeth. Her heart was now racing, her breath long and fast. She could hear all sound from outside. She was snapped to reality when Ayrest grabbed her, pulling at her to raise herself in earnest. Her Tully eyes flickered around the carriage as she took his hand for leverage and then the fabric of the seats as he and herself pulled herself upwards and over the seats into the cabin, returning to face backwards. Ayrest then revealed daggers from the riding cloak of sunset light and streaks of night. They looked freshly forged, resembled Valyrian Steel and were as sharp as the screams of pain from soldiers just beyond the wall. Her breath was slow and long as the Red Boy held the knife and waited for her to take it in hand yet she was reluctant.

“Why are you helping me?” Sansa asked as Ayrest locked a bar in place to keep the door in place to keep out Bolton’s. He returned his gaze to her with his mouth hanging open as he exhaled slowly looking her up and down.

“Because you need it. You are a Stark, the last Stark, and I like to think I’m generous.” He answered tilting the blades of his lips up before down again. Not that the Stark girl trusted him, not entirely at least. Six years with Cersei and Joffrey Baratheon, months with Petyr Baliesh, then Ramsey Bolton and the slaughter of family taught her that her world of dreams, of being Queen, being carried off into the sunset with her charming knight to protect her were lies. A mirror hit with stones, shattered into eight separated fragments far from each other on the floor. His brow shrunk in as his features now resembled anger and confusion when he tilted his head to the side o look behind the Young Wolf. “Well why have we stopped go on!” He practically hollered at the driver of the caravan. Then it suddenly jolted forward into motion a moment later. 

“What about your banner men?” She spoke, her face now plastered with worry for the poor souls who may die in battle just outside the wooden walls of wicker work.

“Don’t worry, they’ll catch up. It’s best we just get some distance between us and the Bolton’s.” Ayrest replied as he pressed his palm on the wall to his right for balance.

“What do you mean us?” She spat. He was taking her out of the wrath of the Bolton’s, he was not her travelling companion or protector. He helped her twice before but it wasn’t as if she had asked for him or his guiding hand. All she wished was to find her siblings further north before she lost them like the rest of her house family. 

“I helped you escape House Bolton. If they catch you they catch me and what do you suppose they would do to the person who helped Sansa Stark slip through their fingers?” Sansa then nodded in confirmation. The Red boy’s lips curled upwards before turning down. Before it did, his lips were a crescent, thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. The caravan travelled longer down winding trails of unpaved mud road jolting from side to side as its wheels drowned in mud as thick and brown as melted chocolate. The journeyed until they reached the edge of the Wintertown. 

“Why are we stopping?” Sansa said.

“We’re waiting for my banner men to return.” He said as he pulling the slide open once more to peer out into the white view to glance up and down. He pulled back into what little warmth remained inside the cabin while gems of white flurried through the hole. “Give them a moment, my men are skilled. They should return.” He said as he tightened leather round his wrist. The Red Boy then queried Sansa if there were anywhere he could take her in travel. As they waited, the Wolf thought hard. Yes this person had helped her out by what was now three success’ but why should she have faith in him? Ayrest and Westeros looked none alike, he gleamed suspicious but it was not as if she had a choice of routs to take herself. She needed someone or thing to get her intended. The Stark girl’s chamber of thoughts had decided. She would journey North with Warwick to see Castle Black and her long lost brother of Snow. 

Reluctantly, she agreed and gave the Red Boy instructions to journey North to Castle Black of the Wall. He gave a nod in recognition. It was then that they caught sound of thundering hooves behind them. Ayrest peered out of the porthole and into the snow. He then retreated into the box of upholstery sighing relief. Sansa imitated the action knowing they were out of harm’s way for now. He called for the driver who then showed herself from the other side of the gateway to the white. If surprised Sansa that a woman was steering the caravan, but the she recalled Breinne who stopped at nothing to forfill her want. “North, to Castle Black.” He said. She nodded and vanished behind the wood wall to climb the carriage and strike the horses into action. The carriage trailed itself from snow and mud to start on the Kingsroad up a hill of white and green in order to gain distance for the current Bolton stronghold with the Wintertown fading in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback. The good, the back and the horrific.


End file.
